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Chad Wringlesworth
as Stull suggests.2 For this reason, both Randolph Paul Runyon and
Mark A. R. Facknitz reject Stulls interpretation. They, in turn, assert
that the ending of A Small, Good Thing is not designed to elicit a
sense of Christian communion, but is a self generated human communion that is genuine, but also godless (Runyon 149, Facnitz 29596).
Although these observations make a valid rebuttal, their overwhelming
rejection of structured Christianity also negates the spiritual awakening
that is certainly evident in Carvers post-recovery work. To dismiss the
possibility of a spiritual encounter on the grounds that it does not correlate with Christianity is yet another representative misreading of Carvers
work. In short, Carvers spirituality is far more ambiguous than critics
tend to realize, as Carver simultaneously refuses to be interpreted as a
Christian or a secular humanist.
As an alternative approach to this critical tension, Hamilton E.
Cochrane contends that Carvers predilection toward spirituality arises
from his association with Alcoholics Anonymous. Cochrane asserts that
examining Carvers redemption in light of the A.A. experience is illuminating and more accurate than locating his new sensibility in some
other, say, Christian perspective (81). Although Cochranes observations
are convincing and insightful, it is worth noting that Carver actually
denies the inuence of Alcoholics Anonymous on more than one occasion; however, this rejection should be interpreted with care.3 For even
if Carver did not reproduce the actual narratives of A.A. meetings in
his work, an examination of key stages in the A.A. program suggests
that the structural patterns of Alcoholics Anonymous inuenced the spiritual dimension in Carvers later work.
In 1977, Carver was living in San Francisco, where he visited St.
James Episcopal Church and went to at least one and sometimes two
[A.A.] meetings a day for the rst month (Gentry and Stull 39). During
Carvers early drying out period, he continued to attend A.A. meetings
for what he calls, the longest whilesix or eight months (Adelman,
Carver Country 106). Apart from these brief references to A.A., it is dicult
to assess the degree of participation Carver maintained with Alcoholics
Anonymous; nevertheless, it is evident that the inuence of A.A. remained
with Carver his entire life. For example, Tess Gallagher, Carvers wife,
recalls that by 1980 Carver was secure enough in his sobriety to develop
a pattern of attending A.A. meetings with friends who were struggling
with alcoholism (Soul Barnacles 219). However, in 1988 Carver found
himself on the brink of drinking again. In this moment of temptation,
Gallagher remembers that he started out for an AA meeting but
returned home, as he was unable to nd the exact location of the
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meeting (Soul Barnacles 209). That same year, at the conclusion of Carvers
funeral, the Lords Prayer was oered, as they do at the end of A.A.
meetings, in respect and gratitude for [Carvers] sobriety (Halpert 183).
Taking all of this into consideration, the objective of this article is to
oer an illustrative study that compares various stages of Alcoholics
Anonymous with the characteristics and patterns interpreted in Carvers
post-recovery writings. In doing so, it is evident that on a surface level,
Carvers rehabilitation brought sense and order to a chaotic personal
narrative. Yet, beneath a text of what Carver describes as the smooth
(but sometimes broken and unsettled) surface of things (Fires 26), Carvers
own life and work parallels the patterns of Alcoholics Anonymous, suggesting that this recovery program contributed signicantly to Carvers
spiritual and literary transformation.
Step Three: Cathedral and the Possibility of Something
Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to
the care of God as we understood Him. (Twelve Steps and
Twelve Traditions 35)
Raymond Carvers spirituality is not systematic or easily denableit
is not bound by orthodox creed or specic doctrine. In a similar way,
Alcoholics Anonymous is described as a spiritual rather than a religious program (Wilcox 64). The only confessional requirement is that
the new member must be willing to recognize that alcoholism has bent
his or her mind into such an obsession for destructive drinking that
only an act of Providence can remove it (Wilcox 21). The second step
recognizes that this healing force of Providence is not antagonistic, but
desires wholeness and restorationwhich leads to the third, and perhaps, most critical step. Through an act of faith, the alcoholic must
cross a threshold, turning his or her life over to the gracious care of
the higher power as they understand Him, content to receive renewal
based on the limited revelation he or she has received. Reading a story
such as Cathedral in this context, suggests that the ambiguous higher
power of Alcoholics Anonymous surfaces in the form of an ineable
something that is mysteriously revealed to the narrator of Cathedral.4
When one probes below the surface of Cathedral, characteristics
of Carvers God as he understood Him become clearer. A blind man,
an old friend of the narrators wife, comes to visit, dismantling the narrators stereotypical assumptions concerning blindness. The narrator,
hemmed in by insecurity and prejudice, buered by drink and pot and
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by the sad fact, as his wife says, that he has no friends, [the narrator] is badly out of touch with his world, his wife, and himself (Nesset
66). However, the complacent and insular narrator actually becomes
dependent upon the blind man, a character whose paradoxical vision
reaches far deeper than the narrator thought he could ever imagine.
As the evening conversation fades, the two men are watching a late
program, something about the church and the Middle Ages (Cathedral
222). The blind man leans toward the screen with his ear cocked, hearing what he fails to see. Together, they listen to a droning Englishman
describe cathedrals and their symbolic ability to reach for transcendence.
The narrator suddenly becomes aware of a communication gap. In a
series of rapid questions, he asks the blind man: Do you have any idea
what a cathedral is? What they look like, that is? Do you follow me?
If somebody says cathedral to you, do you have any notion what theyre
talking about? Do you know the dierence between that and a Baptist
church, say? (223224). Although the blind man knows something of
cathedrals, he has no idea what one actually looks like. Yet, as the narrator stares at the various cathedrals, he realizes that words will not
capture the image. He gropes for language, but stops as he wasnt getting through to him (225). In frustration, the narrator simply states
that in those olden days, when they built cathedrals, men wanted to
be close to God. In those olden days, God was an important part of
everyones life. You could tell this from their cathedral-building (225).
While the narrators attempt at description is genuine, language fails to
penetrate what participation with the image communicates.
The blind man then responds with an explicit question that provokes
a confession:
Hey, listen. I hope you dont mind my asking you. Can
I ask you something? Let me ask you a simple question,
yes or no. Im just curious and theres no oense. Youre
my host. But let me ask if you are in any way religious?
You dont mind me asking?
I shook my head. He couldnt see that, though. A wink
is the same as a nod to a blind man. I guess I dont
believe in it. In anything. Sometimes its hard. You know
what Im saying?
Sure, I do, he said.
Right, I said. (225)
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Through these unpredictable shifts in conversational rhythm, it is probable that the looming and breaking of silence is not an indicator of
what is often generalized as Carveresque reticence, but the origins of
genuine conversation, an invitation prodded by the higher power
designed to negotiate a passage into spiritual awakening. As Martin
Buber suggests, authentic dialogue reects a pattern of broken silences,
perhaps dictated by a spiritual presence:
It is not necessary for all who are joined in a genuine
dialogue actually to speak; those who keep silent can on
occasion be especially important . . . No one, of course,
can know in advance what it is that he has to say; genuine dialogue cannot be arranged beforehand. It has indeed
its basic order in itself from the beginning, but nothing
can be determined, the course is of the spirit, and some
discover what they have to say only when they catch the
call of the spirit. (87)
Mirroring Bubers assertion, the silence encroaches upon the two men
again, until the narrator is moved to speak. Apologizing for his inability to communicate, it is, perhaps, the spirit of language that moves the
narrator to clarify his confession further: The truth is, cathedrals dont
mean anything special to me. Nothing. Cathedrals. Theyre something
to look at on late-night TV. Thats all they are. It was then that the
blind man cleared his throat (226).
In Carvers typical spare style that tells nothing, but shows everything, eavesdropping readers must interpret meaning through the limited lens of Carvers compressed language and deliberate actions of his
characters (Cochrane 79). The blind man cleared his throatWas it
just coincidental timing? Or was the blind man oended by the narrators indierence towards the other? Whatever the case, a throat
clearing shifts the control of the narrative, as, in this moment, the power
of knowledge shifts. The blind man begins directing the narrator to
gather up some heavy paper and a pen. After they clear a space to
draw, the blind man closes his hand over the narrators and politely
orders, Go ahead, bub, draw . . . Draw. Youll see. Ill follow along
with you. Itll be okay. Just begin now like Im telling you. Youll see.
Draw (227). These directions speak a prophetic irony. Twice the blind
man repeats, youll see, in the context of youll see how things work.
However, the expansive conclusion of the story reveals that the narrator, who does not believe in it or anything that inhabits cathedrals
(226), actually sees something (229).
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As instructed, the narrator draws. He begins timidly, blindly drawing a box that could have been the house [he] lived in (227); yet
after some encouragement, he remembers: I couldnt stop (227). Even
when the program goes o the air, the two men continue. In a rapid
series of sequential commands, the blind man oers instruction and
encouragement to his pupil: Put some people in there now. Whats a
cathedral without people? . . . Close your eyes now (227228). Without
questioning, the narrator continues to draw. And with eyes closed, he
recalls the unique moment that transported him to an encounter with
something:
So we kept on with it. His ngers rode my ngers as my
hand went over the paper. It was like nothing else in my
life up to now.
Then [the blind man said] I think thats it. I think
you got it, he said Take a look. What do you think?
But I had my eyes closed. I thought Id keep them that
way for a little longer. I thought it was something I ought
to do.
Well? he said. Are you looking?
My eyes were still closed. I was in my house. I knew
that. But I didnt feel like I was inside anything.
Its really something, I said. (229, emphases mine)
Through his participation in volitional blindness, the narrator is able to
see something beyond what his personal limitations formerly allowed.
In the presence of something, he remains prayerfully silent, with eyes
closed, as though it was something he ought to do. Although the nal
lines are formed by abstract, seemingly elusive language, the narrators
own memory eliminates the possibility of a mundane experience. As if
transported by the spires he has drawn, he specically remembers the
sensation of transcending his own boundaries, as he didnt feel like
[he] was in anything. He remains silent for he lacks the adequate language or ability to communicate. In such a moment, Paul Tillich postulates the possibility of an authentic encounter with the other,
recognizing that there are those who feel that they cannot nd the
words of prayer and remain silent towards God. This may be lack of
Spirit. It may also be that their silence is silent prayer, namely, the sighs
which are too deep for words. Then He who searches the hearts of
men, knows and hears (The New Being 138).
Traditionally, critics have attributed this concluding passage to an
interpersonal connectivity between the narrator and the blind man. An
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remembers reading the story for the rst time. At the illuminating conclusion, he recalls metaphorically entering the text, seemingly levitating beyond the connes of his own boundaries (Halpert 153). In a
similar way, Tess Gallagher remembers that after working through several revisions of the story with Ray, the last lines of the nal version
just took the whole top o of the whole story. I could feel it physically, as if the roof lifted o the imaginary house (Stull and Carroll,
Two Darings 9). Largely because of this expansive eect, Edward
Duy ventures to call Cathedral a story of unambiguous salvation . . . As if by attending to [the text], a reader with ears to hear and
eyes to see could be lifted up towards the heavens (331).
Critics may continue to restrict Carvers stretch towards transcendence by conning Cathedral to a testament of human hope. However,
Carvers second life rejects such interpretations, as he bears witness
(Gentry and Stull 226) to a miraculous encounter with something that
changed his own voice, making it, as he liked to say, more generous.
While Carver did acknowledge a renewed sense of self-esteem through
his recovery from alcoholism, he also suspected the inuence of something else that he was unable to name. When asked about his more
generous writing, Carver could only state that Im more sure of my
voice, more sure of something . . . I dont have that sense of fooling around,
of being tentative . . . When I go to my desk now and pick up a pen,
I really know what I have to do. Its a totally dierent feeling (Gentry
and Stull 103).
While Carver may not couch his spirituality in an orthodox system
of faith, it is not overstatement to suggest that this unnamed something in Carvers life and work illustrates a spiritual reality. Despite
Carvers denial of religious aliation, he is also forced to qualify his
rejection in the same sentence. When asked about his faith, Carver
states that although he is not religious he must believe in miracles and
the possibility of resurrection (Gentry and Stull 46). This statement of
contradiction becomes plausible when contextualized within the Alcoholics
Anonymous program. For example, The Big Book of Alcoholics
Anonymous testies of a reality reminiscent of Carvers own miraculous
resurrection, proclaiming that the age of miracles is still with us. Our
own recovery proves that! (153).
While Carver was not an explicitly religious writer, his personal narrative recognizes the unnamable higher power that entered his life
through grace. As Carvers personal narrative references the higher
power, his later ction functions as a testament to the gracious presence that saved him. In opposition to such an interpretation, Facknitz
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Chad Wringlesworth
Alcoholics Anonymous states that seeking reconciliation is the beginning of the end of isolation from our fellows and from God (Twelve
Steps 84). This is particularly profound when one considers that characters in The Bath, as edited by Lish, illustrate complete isolation,
whereas, in A Small, Good Thing broken lines of communication are
reconnected.5 Carver not only reconciles the characters of A Small,
Good Thing, he also leads the disconnected parties into a meal reminiscent of the Eucharist, which leads Ewing Campbell to suspect that
at this moment a conversion follows (55). In the midst of what should
be anger and fractured communication, Carver joins these disconnected
people through confession, sunlight, and the breaking of bread.
A similar illustration of recovery surfaces through the posthumous
publication of Kindling in Call if You Need Me. The story, one of ve
previously uncollected stories, was found in Carvers writing desk in Port
Angeles, Washington. Kindling becomes increasingly signicant when
contextualized within the larger Carver corpus, as the main character,
Myers, is a gure who reappears in four dierent collections. In Put
Yourself in My Shoes, published in 1976, Myers is temporarily liberated
from writers block at the expense of a familys tragic circumstances.
Years later he reappears In The Compartment. This time, on a train
trip to visit his son in Strasbourg, the struggling writer is edgy, for he
has not seen his son in eight years. When the train stops in Strasbourg,
Myers realizes that a watch he bought for his son has been stolen. In
this moment, Myers suspects the whole reunion is wrong; he wanders
around the station and hides from his son. In confusion, he exits and
then boards the wrong train, literally becoming a lost and misguided
foreigner.
In Call Me if You Need Me, Myers makes a nal appearance in
Kindling. Nearly twenty years after Carvers death, it is evident that
the author-creator went back to reimagine Myers in light of a new horizon. Carver starts Kindling by stating, It was the middle of August
and Myers was between lives. The only thing dierent about this time
from the other times was that this time he was sober (7). The Myers
we meet in Kindling is shaky, but a man changed for the better.
Although still terse and insular, he is a humble man, open to some
degree of conversation and relationship. In contrast to the concluding
disconnection of previous endings, readers nish Kindling knowing
that Myers is on a path to recovery and stability.
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together / with other water. Those places stand out / in my mind like
holy places. For Carver, it is worth noting that the river itself is not
holy, but is like a holy place. As Paul Tillich suggests, holy things
are not holy in themselves, but they point beyond themselves to the
source of all holiness, that which is of ultimate concern (Dynamics of
Faith 48). As the poem concludes, Carvers focal point moves upstream,
as he longs to reach the source of everything that provides his fullness. The river, functioning as a signier to an upstream source, draws
in Carvers aection through its natural and expansive presence: It
pleases me, loving rivers. / Loving them all the way back / to their
source. / Loving everything that increases me.
Where Water Comes Together with Other Water is set at Morse
Creek, a place where Carver walked, sometimes daily, with Tess Gallagher.
Late in his struggle with cancer, Gallagher recalls that before a trip to
Alaska, Ray wanted to go to Morse Creek once more (Soul Barnacles
84). Now debilitated by lung cancer, Carver walked with his wife as
they proceeded on a slow and deliberate journey. When they reached
the mouth of the creek and gazed upon the fullness of water entering
the sea, they experienced a moment of spiritual and personal connectivity. In a moment that metaphorically communicated an experience
of new life, Gallagher remembers:
Without saying anything, we began to walk towards the
mouth where this freshwater river joins the Strait of Juan
de Fuca . . . [Raymond] was travelling on his remaining
right lung, but carrying himself well in the eort, as if this
were the way to do it, the way we had always done it.
When we made it to the river mouth, there was an intake
of joy for us both, to have crossed that ground. It was
one of those actions that is so right it makes you able in
another dimension, all the way back to the start of your
life. We savored it, the rivers freshwater outrush into salt
water, that quiet standing up to life together, for as long
as it was going to last. (Soul Barnacles 84)
Intent on communicating this message of hope, it is evident that Carver
did not conne the healing symbol of rivers to his own life, but used
the image to guide his characters as well. Although Kindling is published as an unedited story, lacking the compression of a fully revised
piece, this is, perhaps, advantageous for this illustration. Throughout
Kindling Carver provides numerous allusions to a nearby river; the
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his entry Myers decides to stay one more night. And before crawling
into bed Carver writes that Myers left the window open . . . it was okay
like that (20).
Something happened to Myers that bears the marks of an encounter
with transcendence. In his nal entry, Myers alludes to what is a common pattern in conversion narratives. He nds himself in an Edenic,
or exotic country. Like T. S. Eliot who writes that the end of our
searching Will be to arrive where we started / And know the place
for the rst time, Myers also experiences a similar encounter which
leads to revelation (Four Quartets, Little Gidding, 24142). He has read
about this place, this river, but not fully known it until now. For this
reason, Myers stays another night, not because he is tired or defeated,
but because this place feels like the home he has intuitively known and
longed for his entire life.
Step Twelve: Bearing Witness and Concluding Thoughts
Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these
steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics, and to
practice these principles in all our aairs (Twelve Steps and
Twelve Traditions 109)
The testimonial component of Alcoholics Anonymous requires that the
recovered convert carry the message of redemptive hope to others.
Reecting on Carvers generous spirit, Jay McInerney remembers that
Carver participated in this call, as he often accompanied friends in
need to their rst A.A. meetings (19). In addition to attending meetings with struggling friends, Carver also wrote to those who found themselves dismantled by alcoholism. Gallagher includes one such letter in
Carver Country. In this letter, Carver provides a personal testimony of his
own struggle with alcohol and oers compassionate words of encouragement to Mr. Hallstrom, an unstable writer who has written to Carver
with concerns about sobriety and the temptation to drink. Carver concludes his lengthy letter in the following way:
Listen, Im glad you wrote me. Im sorry if this seems
hasty, or not very considered and thoughtful, but I wanted
to get some kind of response back to you before any more
time had elapsed.
Stay well. Dont drink, as they say. Think of me if ever
you feel like you want to drink. I know if I can kick it,
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well, then there is hope for just about anybody. I had the
worst case of it.
Write me again in a month or two, or whenever its
right, and tell me how you are and what youre doing.
This is with every good wish.
Warmly,
Raymond Carver (107)
Apparently, this letter to Mr. Hallstrom was only one of many responses
that Carver oered to those in need. As Gallagher indicates, theres
no way to tell how many writers and readers whod connected with his
escape from alcoholism were helped by him through the mails (Soul
Barnacles 219).
Recent scholarship is only beginning to realize that Raymond Carver
proves to be a model convert, one who was able to bear witness
to the possibility of recovery (Gentry and Stull 226). Jim Harbaugh,
a Jesuit and Twelve Steps retreat leader, recognizes the possibility of
using Carvers work in the Twelve-Step program. Harbaugh envisions
using Carvers ction and poetry to communicate hope to the client
who is resistant to the religious or philosophical language present in
twelve-step literature. Particularly optimistic towards the use of A Small,
Good Thing, Harbaugh suggests that The spiritual qualities found
in [A Small, Good Thing] might be a good way to describe spirituality without dening it in a way that puts o either religious or nonreligious people . . . [the storys spiritual qualities] are very consonant
with the qualities of the recovering person as described in 12 Step
literature (39).
Entering Alcoholics Anonymous simply requires that substance abusers
confess that they do not own the truth to categorically state that there
is no God . . . [however], as members recover, they no longer are in a
position to argue whether or not [God] exists, for denial negates their
own miraculous transformation (Wilcox 80). Without compartmentalizing Carvers spirituality into a theological frame of analysis, it is worth
considering that Carvers transformation may place him in the threshold of what Karl Rahner alludes to as anonymous Christianity. Rahner
states:
There is such a thing as anonymous Christianity. There
are men who merely think that they are not Christians,
but who are in the grace of God. And hence there is an
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gram it is also possible that he simply honored the A.A. pledge of anonymity,
which promotes humility and group solidarity rather than personal recognition
(Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions 189192).
4 Steve Mirarchi compiled a variorum edition of Cathedral that compares the
1981 Atlantic Monthly version with the 1983 Knopf edition. Although these revisions are not addressed in this essay, Mirarchi makes the assertion that Carvers
specic revisions ultimately bring about a new discourse on religion (299).
5 For a comparative study see William Stulls, Beyond Hopelessville: Another Side
of Raymond Carver (9) and Kathleen Westfall Shutes, Finding the Words:
The Struggle for Salvation in the Fiction of Raymond Carver (34).
W ORKS C ITED
Adelman, Bob. Carver Country: The World of Raymond Carver. Introduction by Tess
Gallagher. New York: Charles Scribners Sons, 1990.
Alcoholics Anonymous: The Story of How Many Thousands of Men and Women Have Recovered
from Alcoholism. Third Edition. New York: Alcoholics Anonymous World Services,
Inc., 1976.
Broyard, Anatole. Diuse Regrets. New York Times (5 Sept. 1983): 27.
Buber, Martin. The Knowledge of Man: A Philosophy of the Interhuman, ed. Maurice
Friedman. New York: Harper and Row, 1965.
Campbell, Ewing. Raymond Carver: A Study of the Short Fiction. New York: Macmillan
Publishing Company, 1992.
Carver, Raymond. Call Me if You Need Me: The Uncollected Fiction and Other Prose, ed.
William L. Stull. New York: Vintage Books, 2001.
. Cathedral. New York: Knopf, 1983.
. Fires: Essays, Poems, Stories. New York: Vintage Books, 1989; originally Capra, 1983.
. No Heroics, Please: Uncollected Writings. New York: Vintage Books, 1992.
. Where Water Comes Together with Other Water. New York: Vintage Books, 1986;
originally Random House, 1985.
. Will You Please be Quiet, Please? New York: McGraw-Hill, 1978; 1976.
Cochrane, Hamilton E. Taking the Cure: Alcoholism and Recovery in the Fiction
of Raymond Carver. University of Dayton Review 20.1 (Summer 1989): 7988.
Doherty, Paul C. A Note on the Function of Language in Cathedral. Religion
and the Arts 2.3 (1998): 337342.
Duy, Edward. Word of God in Some Raymond Carver Stories. Religion and the
Arts 2.3 (1998): 311336.
Eliot, T. S. Four Quartets. 1943. Orlando FL: Harcourt, 1971.
Facknitz, Mark A. R. The Calm, A Small Good Thing, and Cathedral: Raymond
Carver and the Rediscovery of Human Worth. Studies in Short Fiction 23.3
(Summer 1986): 287296.
Ford, Richard. Good Raymond. New Yorker 74.30 (5 Oct. 1998): 7076, 7879.
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